The Tristan Betrayal

by Robert Ludlum

  And the shot exploded, echoing in the forest.

  Nothing hit him or near him. Wherever the shot had been aimed, he didn’t hear the impact. It must have been in another direction.

  “You missed.” An older voice.

  “I saw it!” The younger man spoke. “I could see the shape, the outline. It was clear!”

  “Idiot!” roared one of the older men. “That was a deer!”

  “It was no deer!”

  Another voice, the third member of the squad: “Artyem is right. That was a deer. Actually, I think it was a stag. But you missed.”

  “I know what a stag looks like!” the youngest one protested. “I hunted all the time when I was a boy.”

  “You’re still a boy, and you just shot at a stag, and missed,” one of the older ones said.

  “Well, okay, maybe that was a deer,” the young man conceded, “but I’m sure I saw a man. I know the difference between a man and a deer.” His protests were met by jeers from the others.

  It was clear from the young soldier’s shakily defiant voice and the gibes of his comrades that the patrol was no longer convinced there had ever been a man fleeing through the woods.

  “You enjoy your little hunting expedition, Sasha? After you dragged us twenty kilometers through this goddamned forest? I say enough sport for the evening. It’s cold, and our shift is just about up.”

  “It’s cold,” another of the guards seconded. “The Order of Stalin is awarded to young Comrade Shubentsov for his brave attempt to track down and liquidate the counterrevolutionary stag, despite the resistance of its kulak supporters. Now, let’s go.”

  For a long time—at least half an hour, though he lost track of time—Metcalfe remained buried beneath the twigs and leaves and snow before he dared to extract himself. He listened as the NKVD guards departed, talking noisily. Their gibes and jeers directed at the younger one, who had first spotted Metcalfe, were unceasing. It was likely that the young patrolman had indeed seen a stag and had taken a shot at it, which was a lucky break for Metcalfe. A stag had been running through the forest, not a fleeing man, they had come to believe. The sharp-eyed youngest member of the patrol, who had indeed seen Metcalfe, though only in silhouette and at a great distance, was no longer believed. Still, Metcalfe waited until he was sure that none of the patrolmen had remained behind. If another shift had taken their place, he heard no sign of it.

  Meanwhile, though his limbs had grown stiff and uncomfortable, some feeling had returned to his feet. The brief respite had done him good. With considerable effort he managed to rise, shaking off the ice and snow and dead leaves. He was chilled and exhausted, but it was imperative that he get out of here. Fortunately, the night sky had cleared somewhat. Now there was some moonlight, which enabled him to orient himself. With the help of the compass and flashlight, he made his way through the forest toward the dacha, all the time alert for the sounds of a patrol. He would have to improvise a way to get back to Moscow, and the dacha was by far the most likely place to do that. There would be vehicles, which he could steal if he needed to; there would be guests to prevail upon for a lift back to the city. His reputation as a carousing partygoer would be useful in explaining away his shocking disheveled appearance: he had gone off with a girl, he could say sheepishly; he’d had way too much to drink, fallen down, passed out . . . A cover story could be devised and might well be believed. Certainly if the ambassador’s wife was there, as she likely was since they had weekend guests, she’d be inclined to believe the most outlandish tales about him. She’d seen him leave, true, but it wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he’d met up with a woman along the way. . . .

  But then, as he neared the dacha, he came upon the stable he’d seen from the veranda. Here the embassy kept horses. And here he could sleep for the remainder of the night, no questions asked. He entered the barn quietly, trying not to wake the animals inside.

  But he heard the grunts and nickers of the horses as he came in. A kerosene lantern had been left burning, presumably for the sake of the horses. It gave off a flickering yellow light. There were ten stalls but just three horses: magnificent Arabians, two black, one chestnut. One of them whinnied. These were beautiful but high-strung animals, and if he did not calm them, they would become distressed and perhaps awaken the sleeping guests in the nearby house.

  One by one the horses began lifting and arching their necks, making soft, blowing sounds through their noses. Their ears were pricked up now, swiveling backward, listening. Metcalfe approached the first one he came to, not from behind, which would alarm him, but at an oblique angle at the rear. He spoke softly and calmly. The horse made a low, grunting noise as he began patting and stroking the animal’s neck and withers, his sleek flanks; in a few minutes, the horse began to relax. His ears lolled to the front, and his lower lip drooped. The others began to calm down as well. Their breathing became regular, almost inaudible.

  Bedding down on a bale of hay near the warmth radiating from the kerosene lantern, Metcalfe fell asleep. Sleep, badly needed, came quickly; it was deep, his dreams strange and fragmented.

  A shaft of bright sunlight awakened him. It was early morning, and although he could have slept for hours more, he knew he had to get moving. He ached all over, the uncomfortable bed of straw exacerbating the bruises and sprains he had suffered during his flight through the forest. He was covered in dusty straw. He sat up, brushing the straw from his face, then rubbing his tired eyes.

  There was a sudden groan of rusty hinges, and the stable was flooded with light. The door came open. Metcalfe jumped up, leaped into an empty stall, flattening himself against the wall. The Arabians whinnied softly, the sounds not of alarm but of greeting. They seemed to recognize whoever was entering.

  Metcalfe did, too.

  Dressed in riding clothes, a kerchief over her head: it was Lana.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Lana,” he said quietly.

  She blinked, surprised to see him but somehow not completely surprised. Before she could compose her face into an expression of disapproval, Metcalfe caught a fleeting glimpse of what looked very much like pleasure.

  “Stiva?” She seemed to be attempting a coolness in her tone, a scolding. “But . . . we agreed, Sokolniki Park tomorrow at dusk.”

  “I guess I couldn’t wait.”

  She shook her head, giggled despite herself. “Look at you! What happened to the best-dressed man in Moscow?”

  He was a mess, he knew: there was straw in his hair and all over his coat and suit, and he smelled of horse. “You see what you’ve driven me to, dusya?”

  “I’m going riding. It’s one of my few pleasures these days.”

  “And your German boyfriend?”

  She scowled. “He rarely gets up before noon. He won’t even notice I’m gone. Everyone’s asleep in the house, actually.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I join you?”

  She inclined her head. “I won’t mind.”

  She saddled up deftly, Metcalfe no less quickly. His mother had kept horses and had seen to it that he had learned to ride not long after he learned to walk. But he was surprised that Lana had gotten so skilled at horsemanship; it seemed to be something she had picked up in the last few years. Like so much that has changed about her, he thought.

  There was a horse trail that ran through the woods, a trail he hadn’t noticed before. It had not been cleared in some time; they were whipped by small branches as they rode. Metcalfe allowed her to set the pace. When the path widened somewhat, she leaned forward, made a clucking sound with her mouth, squeezed her legs together. Her horse, the chestnut Arabian, increased his gait to a canter. She rode as if she’d been doing it all her life. The trail widened again, allowing them to ride alongside each other; but when it narrowed, she took the lead. Metcalfe turned his face up to the soft morning sun. It warmed him, soothed him. For a few moments, as they rode in silence, he was lulled by the rhythmic gallop. It was like old times again. The fear, the terror, the su
spicion—all was left behind. He watched her lithe figure; she seemed to be an extension of the horse. The perfect features of her face, framed by her gaily colored head scarf, were beautiful in repose. The sadness that seemed to have overtaken her was gone. God, he loved her so!

  After a while the terrain began to look familiar. He called out to her, got her attention, interrupted her reverie. He pointed toward the denser section of the woods, through which he had fled the night before. Four, maybe five hours earlier, but already it seemed like another day. She looked perplexed but followed him off the path. They slowed to a walk as they made their way through the trees.

  After a few minutes, she called, “There is no path here!”

  “I know.”

  “It will not be easy. We should go back to the path.”

  “I need to find something. It won’t take long.”

  Soon he came upon a tree that had been daubed with red paint, and he knew where he was. “Wait here a moment.” He dismounted and peered around for the patch of ground where he had strewn twigs and moss over the transmitter. His eye was immediately caught by an unexpected sight, something he hadn’t seen before.

  The ground had been cleared, scraped to the bare soil. The large, flat rock had been moved, exposing the pit that Roger had dug. The hole was empty. The transmitter was gone.

  Metcalfe knew at once what had happened, and he was seized with terror. The youngest member of the patrol had gone back, retraced his steps. That had to be it. Goaded, perhaps, by the jeers of his elders, determined to prove that what he had seen had not been just a stag, he had searched the woods. The transmitter had been concealed well, but he had concentrated on the area where he had first spotted an interloper, and somehow he had found it. Triumphant, vindicated, he had taken it to his comrades, proving that he was right all along. And—if this was how it had happened—now the NKVD patrol knew that what they had chased through the forest had been no stag and no mere intruder but . . . a spy. A genuine spy, a discovery that would make their careers and would land like a bombshell in the NKVD’s headquarters in the Lubyanka. A sophisticated transceiver of British manufacture! Proof that spies were operating in Moscow! Lights would burn through the night at the Lubyanka; urgent meetings would be held, frantic phone calls made, frenzied summonses.

  Everything had suddenly changed. The NKVD would shift into high gear, searching for a spy—or a spy ring, for, like cockroaches, where there was one there were undoubtedly others.

  It was not safe to be here, in this place where the transmitter had been found. Teams would be assigned to hide, lie in wait for the spy to return to this spot, just as a criminal is said to always return to the scene of the crime.

  He had to get out of here at once!

  Metcalfe raced back to where Lana and the horses waited. As he climbed back into the saddle, she must have noticed the strain in his face. “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said tightly. He tugged at the reins to get his horse moving back through the woods and toward the path. A few seconds later, he clarified: “Everything.”

  Lana stared at him, then nodded as if she understood. “Welcome to the USSR,” she said with a grim, knowing smile.

  As soon as they reached the path, they began circling back toward the dacha, Metcalfe now taking the lead. Outside the stable they both dismounted, walking the horses back inside. Lana filled a bucket with water from a hand pump; her horse drank greedily. She pumped another bucketful and placed it in front of Metcalfe’s horse, which drank as well. They knew her, trusted her. She removed her horse’s tack, shook out the saddle before hanging it up, removed the bridle, and washed out the bit in a stream of water from the pump before hanging that up as well. She did all this quickly, expertly, all the time cooing softly to the horse, stroking him. She took a towel from a hook and rubbed the horse gently to restore the circulation in his back, then began grooming him with a soft-bristled brush. Metcalfe did the same. They worked in silence, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. It felt companionable, like old friends who did not need to talk. Once she had examined her horse’s hooves for stones, she led him back to his stall.

  As Metcalfe shut the stall gate, he noticed that she had come over to him, as if she had something she wanted to say.

  “Lana,” he began, but she placed a hand over his mouth, a quick touch, a request for silence. Her face was tilted upward to his, her eyes brimming with tears. She reached up with both hands this time, cupping his face. He wrapped his arms around her. Her lips parted as they touched his. He could feel the hot moisture of her tears against his face. She was trembling. He moved her hands down her back, fondling her, caressing her as they kissed with an urgency that surprised him. He pulled her in to him tight. Her hands kneaded the muscles of his back, of his buttocks, and he moved a hand around to her breast. Abruptly she pulled her mouth away from his. “Oh, God, Stiva,” she said, her voice plaintive. “Take me. Please. Love me!”

  Their bed was a horse blanket thrown hastily over a few stacks of hay. It was coarse and not particularly comfortable, but in the urgency of their passion neither noticed. They made love quickly and without speaking, disrobing only partially. And just as quickly they dressed, both of them fearful, without needing to say anything, that they might be discovered. As she dressed, Lana began humming a tune.

  “What is it?” Metcalfe said.

  “What is what?”

  “That song. It sounds somehow familiar.”

  She laughed. “ ‘Comme ils étaient forts tes bras qui m’embrassaient.’ How strong were your arms that embraced me. A song that came into my head for some reason.”

  “It’s pretty. Will we still meet tomorrow evening?”

  “Yes, of course. Why not?”

  “Rudolf—he won’t be suspicious?”

  “Please,” she said fretfully. “I was feeling happy for the first time in a long, long while. Why did you have to mention his name?”

  “What are you doing with him? I know you don’t love him. I don’t understand.”

  “There’s so much you don’t understand, Stiva.”

  “Tell me,” he said. He placed his hand over hers.

  She bit her lower lip. “I had no choice.”

  “No choice? You always have a choice, milenki.”

  She shook her head slowly, sadly, and the tears returned to her eyes. “Not when you’re a prisoner, dorogoi moi. Not when you are a hostage.”

  “What are you saying? How can this—”

  “It is my father. He knows how I love my father, how I would do anything to protect him.”

  “Von Schüssler is threatening your father?”

  “No, it is nothing so open. He . . . he has a document. A piece of paper that has the power to kill my father. To get my father executed and me arrested.”

  “Lana, what the hell—?”

  “Listen to me. Please, just listen!” She took his hand in both of hers and held it tightly. “You know the name of the famous Red Army general Mikhail Nikolayevich Tukhachevsky, the great Hero of the Revolution?”

  “I’ve heard the name, yes.”

  “He defended Moscow in 1918, captured Siberia in 1920. A great, loyal military man. The chief of staff of the Soviet army. And he was an old friend of my father’s. A few times we had dinner with his family. My father worshiped him. He had a photograph of himself with Tukhachevsky which he displayed prominently on top of the piano.” She paused, drew in her breath as if steeling herself. “One night in May—it was three years ago, in 1937—I was asleep when I heard our doorbell ring. I thought it must be some prankster, some hooligan, some drunk, so I rolled over and put the pillow over my head. The ringing did not stop. I looked at my clock. It was after midnight. Finally the ringing stopped, and I was able to fall back to sleep. I had a big performance the next evening—we were doing Sleeping Beauty.

  “It must have been an hour later when I was awakened again, this time by loud voices. My father’s voice. I got up from my bed a
nd listened. The voices were coming from my father’s study. He seemed to be arguing with someone. I ran to his study but stopped just outside the door. Father was there, in his dressing gown, and he was talking quite agitatedly to Tukhachevsky. My first thought was that Marshal Tukhachevsky was yelling at Father for something, and I became quite angry. I stood there, eavesdropping. But I soon realized that Father was not yelling at him at all—he was angry, furious as I had never seen him before, but not angry at his friend Mikhail Nikolayevich. He was furious at Stalin. Tukhachevsky did not seem to be angry, though. His tone of voice was sad, resigned, almost mournful.

  “I looked around the corner to see the two men, and I was shocked to see that Tukhachevsky’s hair had turned gray. I had seen him two weeks earlier, and it was quite dark. Obviously something terrible had happened to him. I pulled back, careful not to be seen. I knew that if they knew I was there, that I was listening in, they would stop. And I had the feeling that whatever they were discussing was so serious, so dangerous, that my father would never tell me. He is always so protective of me, you know.”

  “Not because he doesn’t respect you, dusya. But because he loves you.”

  “Yes. I’ve come to understand this, though for years it made me so angry that he insisted on treating me like a small child. So I listened to Tukhachevsky tell my father that Stalin and his NKVD had uncovered a huge plot within the army. He said the NKVD was tailing him, on Stalin’s direct orders. The rumor was that Stalin had strong evidence indicating that a number of his top military officers were engaged in a secret conspiracy—a plot with members of the German High Command to carry out a coup d’etat against Stalin. And that among these plotters was . . . Tukhachevsky!”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Is it? I don’t know the truth. I know that when my father and he spoke privately, they both agreed that Stalin was a dangerous man.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “My father loathes Stalin. This I know. He will not allow Stalin’s name to be used in our house. Oh, in public he joins in all the toasts to the General Secretary. He praises Stalin to the skies when others are listening. He is not stupid. But he hates the man. And so did Tukhachevsky.”